Over his cigar, from Reveries of a bachelor

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THIRD REVERIE

A Cigar Three Times Lighted

" About what, pray ?" said my aunt. "About Love," said I.

— Page 4

Ovtr Hit Cigar

FROM

REVERIES OF A BACHELOR

BY

IK. MARVEL

(DONALD G. MITCHELL)

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY

18 EAST SEVENTEENTH ST., NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1907
BY R. F. FENNO & COMPANY

Stack
Annex

Over His Cigar

I DO not believe that there was ever an
Aunt Tabithy who could abide cigars. My
Aunt Tabithy hated them with a peculiar
hatred. She was not only insensible to the
rich flavor of a fresh rolling volume of smoke,
but she could not so much as tolerate the sight
of the rich russet color of an Havana-labeled
box. It put her out of all conceit with Guava
jelly, to find it advertised in the same tongue,
and with the same Cuban coarseness of design.

She could see no good in a cigar.

" But by your leave, my aunt," said I to her,
the other morning — " there is very much that
is good in a cigar."

My aunt, who was sweeping, tossed her
head, and with it, her curls — done up in paper.

" It is a very excellent matter," continued I,
puffing.

" It is dirty," said my aunt.

" It is clean and sweet," said I ; "and a most
pleasant soother of disturbed feelings ; and a
3

©\>er Ibis Cigar

!

capital companion ; and a comforter " and

I stopped to puff.

" You know it is a filthy abomination," said

my aunt — " and you ought to be " and she

stopped to put up one of her curls, which with
the energy of her gesticulation, had fallen out
of its place.

" It suggests quiet thoughts " — continued I
— " and makes a man meditative ; and gives a
current to his habits of contemplation — as I
can show you," said I, warming with the
theme.

My aunt, still fingering her papers — with
the pin in her mouth — gave a most incredulous
shrug.

I " Aunt Tabithy " — said I, and gave two
or three violent, consecutive puffs — "Aunt
Tabithy, I can make up such a series of reflec-
I tions out of my cigar, as would do your heart
:: good to listen to 1 "

"About what, pray?" said my aunt, con-
temptuously.

" About love," said I, " which is easy enough
lighted, but wants constancy to keep it in a
glow — or about matrimony, which has a great
deal of fire in the beginning, but it is a fire

©vcr 1bl0 (Hoar

that consumes all that feeds the blaze — o:
about life," continued I, earnestly — " which
the first is fresh and odorous, but ends shortly
in a withered cinder, that is fit only for the
ground."

My aunt who was forty and unmarried,
finished her curl with a flip of the fingers — re-
sumed her hold of the broom, and leaned her
chin upon one end of it, with an expression of
some wonder, some curiosity, and a great deal
of expectation.

I could have wished my aunt had been a
little less curious, or that I had been a little C
less communicative: for though it was all
honestly said on my part, yet my contempla-
tions bore that vague, shadowy, and delicious
sweetness, that it seemed impossible to
them into words — least of all, at the bidding^
of an old lady, leaning on a broom-handle.

" Give me time, Aunt Tabithy," said I — '
good dinner, and after it a good cigar, and
will serve you such a sunshiny sheet of reverie,
all twisted out of the smoke, as will make your
kind old heart ache ! "

Aunt Tabithy, in utter contempt, either of
my mention of the dinner, or of the smoke, or

0ver Ibis Cigar

of the old heart, commenced sweeping furi-
ously.

" If I do not " — continued I, anxious to ap-
pease her — "if I do not, Aunt Tabithy, it
shall be my last cigar (Aunt Tabithy stopped
sweeping) ; and all my tobacco money (Aunt
Tabithy drew near me), shall go to buy
ribbons for ray most respectable, and worthy
Aunt Tabithy ; and a kinder person could not
have them ; or one," continued I, with a gen-
erous puff, " whom they would more adorn."

My Aunt Tabithy gave me a half-playful —
half-thankful nudge.

It was in this way that our bargain was
struck ; my part of it is already stated. On
her part, Aunt Tabithy was to allow me, in
case of my success, an evening cigar un-
molested, upon the front porch, underneath
her favorite rose-tree. It was concluded, I
say, as I sat; the smoke of my cigar rising
gracefully around my Aunt Tabithy's curls ;
our right hands joined ; my left was holding
my cigar, while in hers, was tightly grasped —
her broom-stick.

And this reverie, to make the matter short,
is what came of the contract.
6

©ver tots digar

LIGHTED WITH A COAL

I TAKE up a coal with the tongs, and setting
the end of my cigar against it, puff — and puff
again ; but there is no smoke. There is very
little hope of lighting from a dead coal — no
more hope, thought I — than of kindling one's
heart into flame, by contact with a dead
heart.

To kindle, there must be warmth and life ;
and I sat for a moment, thinking — even before
I lit my cigar — on the vanity and folly of
those poor, purblind fellows, who go on puffing
for half a lifetime, against dead coals. It is
to be hoped that Heaven, in its mercy, has
made their senses so obtuse, that they know
not when their souls are in a flame, or when
they are dead. I can imagine none but the
most moderate satisfaction, in continuing to
love what has got no ember of love within
it. The Italians have a very sensible sort of
proverb — amare, e non essere amato, e

7

Over 1bte Cigar

perduto — to love, and not be loved, is time
lost.

I take a kind of rude pleasure in flinging
down a coal that has no life in it. And it
seemed to me — and may Heaven pardon the
ill-nature that belongs to the thought — that
there would be much of the same kind of
satisfaction, in dashing from you a lukewarm
creature, covered over with the yellow ashes
of old combustion, that with ever so much
attention, and the nearest approach of the lips,
never shows signs of fire. May Heaven for-
give me again, but I should long to break
away, though the marriage bonds held me,
and see what liveliness was to be found else-
where.

I have seen before now a creeping vine try
to grow up against a marble wall ; it shoots
out its tendrils in all directions, seeking for
some crevice by which to fasten and to climb
— looking now above and now below — twining
upon itself — reaching farther up, but after all,
finding no good foothold, and falling away as
if in despair. But nature is not unkind ; twin-
ing things were made to twine. The longing
tendrils take new strength in the sunshine,
8

<§>\>er Ibis Cigar

and in the showers, and shoot out towards
some hospitable trunk. They fasten easily to
the kindly roughness of the bark, and stretch
up, dragging after them the vine; which by
and by, from the topmost bough, will nod its
blossoms over at the marble wall, that refused
it succor, as if it said — stand there in your
pride, cold, white wall ! we, the tree and I, are
kindred, it the helper, and I the helped ; and
bound fast together, we riot in the sunshine,
and in gladness.

The thought of this image made me search
for a new coal that should have some bright-
ness in it. There may be a white ash over it
indeed ; as you will find tender feelings cov-
ered with the mask of courtesy, or with the
veil of fear ; but with a breath it all flies off ;
and exposes the heat, and the glow that you
are seeking.

At the first touch, the delicate edges of the
cigar crimple, a thin line of smoke rises — '
doubtfully for awhile, and with a coy delay :
but after a hearty respiration or two, it grows
strong, and my cigar is fairly lighted.

That first taste of the new smoke, and of the
fragrant leaf is very grateful ; it has a bloom
9

©\>er "tote Cigar

about it, that you wish might last. It is like
your first love — fresh, genial, and rapturous.
Like that, it fills up all the craving of your
soul; and the light, blue wreaths of smoke,
like the roseate clouds that hang around the
morning of your heart life, cut you off from
the chill atmosphere of mere worldly compan-
ionship, and make a gorgeous firmament for
your fancy to riot in.

I do not speak now of those later, and man-
lier passions, into which judgment must be
thrusting its cold tones, and when all the
sweet tumult of your heart has mellowed into
the sober ripeness of affection. But I mean
that boyish burning, which belongs to every
poor mortal's lifetime, and which bewilders
him with the thought that he has reached the
highest point of human joy before he has tasted
any of that bitterness, from which alone our
highest human joys have sprung. I mean the
time, when you cut initials with your jack-
knife on the smooth bark of beech trees ; and
went moping under the long shadows at sun-
set ; and thought Louise the prettiest name in
.the wide world ; and picked flowers to leave at
her door ; and stole out at night to watch the
10

©ver Ibis Cigar

light in her window ; and read such novels as
those about Helen Mar, or Charlotte, to give
some adequate expression to your agonized
feelings.

At such a stage, you are quite certain that
you are deeply, and madly in love ; you per-
sist in the face of heaven, and earth. You
would like to meet the individual who dared
to doubt it.

You think she has got the tidiest, and jaun-
tiest little figure that ever was seen. You
think back upon some time when in your
games of forfeit, you gained a kiss from those
lips ; and it seems as if the kiss was hanging
on you yet, and warming you all over. And
then again, it seems so strange that your lips
did really touch hers ! You half question if it
could have been actually so — and how you
could have dared — and you wonder if you
would have courage to do the same thing
again?— and upon second thought, are quite
sure you would — and snap your fingers at the
thought of it.

What sweet little hats she does wear ; and
in the schoolroom, when the hat is hung up —
what curls — golden curls, worth a hundred
11

©ver "fete Ci^ar

Golcondas! How bravely you study the top
lines of the spelling-book that your eyes may
run over the edge of the cover, without the
schoolmaster's notice, and feast upon her !

You half wish that somebody would run
away with her, as they did with Amanda, in
the " Children of the Abbey " — and then you
might ride up on a splended black horse, and
draw a pistol, or blunderbuss, and shoot the
villains, and carry her back, all in tears, faint-
ing, and languishing upon your shoulder — and
have her father (who is judge of the county
court) take your hand in both of his, and make
some eloquent remarks. A great many such
recaptures you run over in your mind, and
think how delightful it would be to peril your
life, either by flood, or fire — to cut off your
arm, or your head, or any such trifle — for your
dear Louise.

You can hardly think of anything more joy-
ous in life, than to live with her in some old
castle, very far away from steamboats, and
post-offices, and pick wild geraniums for her
hair, and read poetry with her, under the
shade of very dark ivy vines. And you would
have such a charming boudoir in some corner
12

©\>er Ibis Cigar

of the old ruin, with a harp in it, and books
bound in gilt, with Cupids on the cover, and
such a fairy couch, with the curtains hung —
as you have seen them hung in some illustrated
Arabian stories — upon a pair of carved doves.
And when they laugh at you about it, you
turn it off perhaps with saying — " It isn't so ";
but afterwards, in your chamber, or under the
tree where you have cut her name, you take
Heaven to witness, that it is so ; and think —
what a cold world it is, to be so careless about
such holy emotions ! You perfectly hate a
certain stout boy in a green jacket, who is for-
ever twitting you, and calling her names ; but
when some old maiden aunt teases you in her
kind, gentle way, you bear it very proudly ;
and with a feeling as if you could bear a great
deal more for her sake. And when the min-
ister reads off marriage announcements in the
church, you think how it will sound one of
these days, to have your name, and hers, read
from the pulpit — and how the people will look
at you, and how prettily she will blush ; and
how poor little Dick, who you know loves her,
but is afraid to say so, will squirm upon his
bench.

13

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Over Ibis Cigar

Heigho! mused I — as the blue smoke

rolled up around my head — these first kindlings
of the love that is in one, are very pleasant !
but will they last ?

You love to listen to the rustle of her dress,
as she stirs about the room. It is better music
than grown-up ladies will make upon all their
harpsichords, in the years that are to come.
But this, thank Heaven, you do not know.

You think you can trace her foot-mark, on
your way to the school ; and what a dear little
foot-mark it is 1 And from that single point,
if she be out of your sight for days, you con-
jure up the whole image — the elastic, lithe little
figure — the springy step — the dotted muslin so
light, and flowing — the silk kerchief, with its
most tempting fringe playing upon the clear
white of her throat — how you envy that fringe !
And her chin is as round as a peach — and the
lips — such lips ! and you sigh, and hang your
head ; and wonder when you shall see her
again !

You would like to write her a letter ; but
then people would talk so coldly about it ; and
besides you are not quite sure you could write
billets as Thaddeus of Warsaw used to
14

©ver Ibis Cigar

write; and anything less warm or elegant,
would not do at all. You talk about this one,
or that one, whom they call pretty, in the
coolest way in the world ; you see very little
of their prettiness ; they are good girls to be
sure; and you hope they will get good hus-
bands some day or other ; but it is not a matter
that concerns you very much. They do not
live in your world of romance ; they are not
the angels of that sky which your heart makes
rosy, and to which I have likened the blue
waves of this rolling smoke.

You can even joke as you talk of others ;
you can smile — as you think — very graciously ;
you can say laughingly that you are deeply in
love with them, and think it a most capital
joke ; you can touch their hands, or steal a kiss
from them in your games, most imperturbably
— they are very dead coals.

But the live one is very lively. When you
take the name on your lip, it seems somehow,
to be made of different materials from the
rest ; you cannot half so easily separate it into
letters ; write it indeed, you can ; for you have
had practice — very much private practice on
odd scraps of paper, and on the fly-leaves of
15

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,

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w& :<

©vcr t>is Cigar

* •• *»^ *~ ">v^

) V. ^ geographies, and of your natural philosophy.
''You know perfectly well how it looks ; it
seems to be written, indeed, somewhere behind
your eyes ; and in such happy position with
respect to the optic nerve, that you see it all
the time, though you are looking in an oppo-
site direction ; and so distinctly, that you have
great fears lest people looking into your eyes,
should see it too !

For all this, it is a far more delicate name to
Jj handle than most that you know of. Though
*A it is very cool, and pleasant on the brain, it is
P Very hot, and difficult to manage on the lip.
; It is not, as your schoolmaster would say — a
name, so much as it is an idea — not a noun,
but a verb — an active, and transitive verb ;
,nd yet a most irregular verb, wanting the
assive voice.

*/&$ \ ^ *s sometning against your schoolmaster's
trine, to find warmth in the moonlight ; but
/'with that soft hand — it is very soft — lying
within your arm, there is a great deal of
warmth, whatever the philosophers may say,
even in pale moonlight. The beams, too,
breed sympathies, very close-running sympa-
ies-— not talked about in the chapters on

©vet Ibis dtgar

optics, and altogether too fine for language.
And under their influence, you retain the little
hand, that you had not dared retain so long
before ; and her struggle to recover it — if in-
deed it be a struggle — is infinitely less than it
was — nay, it is a kind of struggle, not so much
against you, as between gladness and modesty.
It makes you as bold as a lion ; and the feeble
hand, like a poor lamb in the lion's clutch, is
powerless, and very meek — and failing of
escape, it will sue for gentle treatment ; and
will meet your warm promise, with a kind of
grateful pressure, that is but half acknowl-
edged, by the hand that makes it.

My cigar is burning with wondrous free-
ness ; and from the smoke flash forth images

o

bright and quick as lightning — with no thunder,
but the thunder of the pulse. But will it all
last ? Damp will deaden the fire of a cigar ;
and there are hellish damps — alas, too many —
that will deaden the early blazing of the heart.
She is pretty — growing prettier to your eye,
the more you look upon her, and prettier to
your ear, the more you listen to her. But you
wonder who the tall boy was, who you saw
walking with her, two days ago ? He was not
17

©\>er Ibis

a bad-looking boy ; on the contrary you think
(with a grit of your teeth) that he was infernally
handsome ! You look at him very shyly, and
very closely, when you pass him ; and turn to
see how he walks, and how to measure his
shoulders, and are quite disgusted with the
very modest, and gentlemanly way, with

•\ which he carries himself. You think you
would like to have a fisticuff with him, if you

;: were only sure of having the best of it. You
sound the neighborhood coyly, to find out who
the strange boy is : and are half ashamed of
yourself for doing it.

You gather a magnificent bouquet to send
her and tie it with a green ribbon, and love
knot — and get a little rose-bud in acknowl-
edgment. That day, you pass the tall boy
with a very patronizing look ; and wonder if
he would not like to have a sail in your boat ?
But by and by, you will find the tall boy
walking with her again ; and she looks side-

.< ways at him, and with a kind of grown up air,
that makes you feel very boy like, and humble
aud furious. And you look daggers at him
when you pass; and touch your cap to her,
with quite uncommon dignity ; and wonder if
18 -

©\>er Ibis

he is not sorry, and does not feel very badly,
to have got such a look from you ?

On some other day, however, you meet her
alone ; and the sight of her makes your face
wear a genial, sunny air ; and you talk a little
sadly about your fears and your jealousies ; she
seems a little sad, and a little glad, together ;
and is sorry she has made you feel badly —
and you are sorry too. And with this pleasant
twin sorrow, you are knit together again —
closer than ever. That one little tear of hers
has been worth more to you than a thousand
smiles. Now you love her madly ; you could
swear it — swear it to her, or swear it to the
universe. You even say as much to some kind
old friend at nightfall ; but your mention of
her, is tremulous and joyful — with a kind of
bound in your speech, as if the heart worked
too quick for the tongue; and as if the lips
were ashamed to be passing over such secrets
of the soul, to the mere sense of hearing. At
this stage you cannot trust yourself to speak
her praises or if you venture, the expletives
fly away with your thought, before you can
chain it into language; and your speech, at
your best endeavor, is but a succession of
19

©\>er t)ie Cigar

broken superlatives, that you are ashamed of.
You strain for language that will scald the
thought of her ; but hot as you can make it, it

falls back upon your heated fancy like a cold
,
shower.

Heat so intense as this consumes very fast ;

*

and the matter it feeds fastest on, is — judg-
ment; and with judgment gone, there is room
for jealousy to creep in. You grow petulant
at another sight of that tall-boy ; and the one
tear which cured your first petulance, will not
cure it now. You let a little of your fever
break out in speech — a speech which you go
home to mourn over. But she knows nothing1

o

of the mourning, while she knows very much
of the anger. Vain tears are very apt to breed
pride ; and when you go again with your petu-
lance, you will find your rosy -lipped girl taking
her first studies in dignity.

You will stay away, you say — poor fool, you
are feeding on what your disease loves best !
You wonder if she is not sighing for your re-
turn— and if your name is not running in her

thought — and if tears of regret are not moisten-
ing those sweet eyes.

And wondering thus, you stroll moodily,
20

©\>er Ibis Ci$ar

and hopefully towards her father's home ; you
pass the door once — twice; you loiter under
the shade of an old tree, where you have some-
times bid her adieu ; your old fondness is strug-
gling with your pride, and has almost made the
mastery ; but in the very moment of victory,
you see yonder your hated rival, and beside
him, looking very gleeful, and happy — your
perfidious Louise.

How quick you throw off the marks of your
struggle, and put on the boldest air of boy-
hood ; and what a dextrous handling to your
knife, and what a wonderful keenness to the
edge, as you cut away from the bark of the
beech-tree, all trace of her name ! Still there
is a little silent relenting, and a few tears at
night, and a little tremor of the hand, as you
tear out — the next day — every fly-leaf that
bears her name. But at sight of your rival
looking so jaunty, and in such capital
you put on the proud man again. You may
meet her, but you say nothing of your strug-
gles— oh, no, not one word of that ! — but you
talk with amazing rapidity about your games,
or what not ; and you never — never give her
another peep into your boyish heart !
21

For a week, you do not see her — nor for a
month — nor two months — nor three.

Puff — puff once more ; there is only a

little nauseous smoke ; and now — my cigar is
gone out altogether. I must light again.

©ver Die Cigar

WITH A WISP OF PAPER

THERE are those who throw away a cigar,
when once gone out; they must needs have
plenty more. But nobody that I ever heard
of, keeps a cedar box of hearts, labeled at Ha-
vana. Alas, there is but one to light !

But can a heart once lit, be lighted again ?
Authority on this point is worth something;
yet it should be impartial authority. I should
be loth to take in evidence, for the fact — how-
ever it might tally with my hope, the affidavit
of some rakish old widower, who had cast his
weeds, before the grass had started on the
mound of his affliction ; and I should be as
slow to take, in way of rebutting testimony,
the oath of any sweet young girl, just becom-
ing conscious of her heart's existence — by its
loss.

Yery much, it seems to me, depends upon
the quality of the fire : and I can easily con-
ceive of one so pure, so constant, so ex?
23

©vcr Ibis Cigar

hausting, that if it were once gone out,
whether in the chills of death, or under the
blasts of pitiless fortune, there would be no
rekindling; simply because there would be
nothing left to kindle. And I can imagine
too a fire so earnest, and so true, that what-
ever malice might urge, or a devilish ingenuity
devise, there could no other be found, high or
low, far or near, which should not so contrast
with the first, as to make it seem cold as ice.

I remember in an old play of Davenport's,
the hero is led to doubt his mistress ; he is
worked upon by slanders, to quit her altogether
— though he has loved, and does still love
passionately. She bids him adieu, with large
tears dropping from her eyes (and I lay down
my cigar, to recite it aloud, fancying all the
while, with a varlet impudence, that some
Abstemia is repeating it to me) :

Farewell, Lorenzo,

Whom my soul doth love; if you ever marry,
May you meet a good wife: so good, that you
May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy
Of your suspicion : and if yon hear hereafter
That I am dead, inquire but my last words,
And you shall know that to the last I loved yon.
24

©ver Ibis

And when you walk forth with your second choice,
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me
Imagine that you see me thin, and pale,
Strewing your path with flowers !

Poor Abstemia ! Lorenzo never could

find such another — there never could be such
another, for such Lorenzo.

To blaze anew, it is essential that the old
fire be utterly gone ; and can any truly-lighted
soul ever grow cold, except the grave cover it?
The poets all say no : Othello, had he lived a
thousand years, would not have loved again —
nor Desdemona — nor Andromache — nor Medea
— nor Ulysses — nor Hamlet. But in the cool
wreaths of the pleasant smoke, let us see what
truth is in the poets.

What is love — mused I — at the first,

but a mere fancy ? There is a prettiness, that

your soul cleaves to, as your eye to a pleasant
flower, or your ear to a soft melody. Pres-
ently, admiration comes in, as a sort of
balance wheel for the eccentric revolutions of
your fancy ; and your admiration is touched
off with such neat quality as respect. Too
much of this, indeed, they say, deadens the
fancy ; and so retards the action of the heart
25

<§>\>er Ibis Cigar

machinery. But with a proper modicum to
serve as a stock, devotion is grafted in ; and
then, by an agreeable and confused mingling
all these qualities, and affections of the soul,
become transfused into that vital feeling, called
love.

Your heart seems to have gone over to an-
other and better counterpart of your human-
ity ; what is left of you, seems the mere^husk
of some kernel that has been stolen. It is not
an emotion of yours, which is making very
easy voyages towards another soul — that may
be shortened, or lengthened, at will ; but it is
a passion, that is only yours, because it is
there; the more it lodges there, the more
keenly you feel it to be yours.

The qualities that feed this passion, may in-
deed belong to you ; but they never gave birth
to such an one before, simply because there
was no place in which it could grow. Nature
is very provident in these matters. The
chrysalis does not burst, until there is a wing
to help the gauze-fly upward. The shell does
not break, until the bird can breathe ; nor
/iocs the swallow quit its nest, until its wings
f are tipped with the airy oars.

26

<§>\>er Ibis Cigar

This passion of love is strong, just in pro-
portion as the atmosphere it finds, is tender of
its life. Let that atmosphere change into too
great coldness, and the passion becomes a
wreck — not yours, because it is not worth
your having — nor vital, because it has lost the
soil where it grew. But is it not laying the
reproach in a high quarter, to say that those
qualities of the heart which begot this passion,
are exhausted, and will not thenceforth germi-
nate through all of your lifetime ?

Take away the worm-eaten frame from

your arbor plant, and the wrenched arms of
the despoiled climber will not at the first,
touch any new trellis; they cannot in a day,
change the habit of a year. But let the new
support stand firmly, and the needy tendrils
will presently lay hold upon the stranger ! and
your plant will regain its pride and pomp;
cherishing perhaps in its bent figure, a
memento of the old ; but in its more earnest,
and abounding life, mindful only of its sweet
dependence on the new.

Let the poets say what they will; these
affections of ours are not blind, stupid
creatures, to starve under polar snows, when
27

©vcr Ibis Cigar

the very breezes of Heaven are the appointed
messengers to guide them towards warmth
and sunshine !

And with a little suddenness of manner,

I tear off a wisp of paper, and holding it in
the blaze of my lamp, re-light my cigar. It
does not burn so easily perhaps as at first : it
wants warming, before it will catch ; but
presently, it is in a broad, full glow, that
throws light into the corners of my room.

Just so— thought I — the love of youth,

which succeeds the crackling blaze of boyhood,
makes a broader flame, though it may not be
so easily kindled. A mere dainty step, or a
curling lock, or a soft blue eye are not enough ;
but in her, who has quickened the new blaze,
there is a blending of all these, with a certain
sweetness of soul, that finds expression in
whatever feature or motion you look upon.
.Her charms steal over you gently, and almost
imperceptibly. You think that she is a
pleasant companion — nothing more: and you
find the opinion strongly confirmed, day by
day ; so well confirmed, indeed, that you be-
gin to wonder — why it is, that she is such a
delightful companion ? It cannot be her eye,
28

Nelly

-Page 28

Over His Cigar

©ver Ibis Cigar

for you have seen eyes almost as pretty as
Nelly's ; nor can it be her mouth, though
Nelly's mouth is certainly very sweet. And
you keep studying what on earth it can be
that makes you so earnest to be near her, or
to listen to her voice. The study is pleasant..
You do not know any study that is more so ;:
or which you accomplish with less mental'
fatigue.

Upon a sudden, some fine day, when the am
is balmy, and the recollection of Nelly's voice;
and manner, more balmy still, you wonder — if
you are in love? When a man has such a;
wonder, he is either very near love, or he is
very far away from it ; it is a wonder, that is;
either suggested by his hope, or by that en-
tanglement, of feeling which blunts all his
perceptions.

But if not in love, you have at least a strong
fancy — so strong, that you tell your friends
carelessly, that she is a nice girl — nay, a beau-
tiful girl ; and if your education has been bad,s
you strengthen the epithet on your own tongue,
with a very wicked expletive — of which the
mildest form would be — " deuced fine girl ! "
Presently, however, you get beyond this ; and
29

©\>er Ibie

your companionship, and your wonder, relapse
into a constant, quiet habit of unmistakable
love — not impulsive, quick, and fiery, like the
first ; but mature and calm. It is as if it were
born with your soul, and the recognition of it
was rather an old remembrance, than a fresh
passion. It does not seek to gratify its ex-
uberance, and force, with such relief as night-
serenades, or any Jacques-like meditations in
the forest ; but it is a quiet, still joy, that floats
on your hope, into the years to come — making
the prospect all sunny and joyful.

It is a kind of oil and balm for whatever was
stormy, or harmful : it gives a permanence to
the smile of existence. It does not make the
sea of your life turbulent with high emotions,
as if a strong wind were blowing — but it is as
if an Aphrodite had broken on the surface, and
the ripples were spreading with a sweet, low
sound, and widening far out to the very shores
of time.

There is no need now, as with the boy, to
bolster up your feelings with extravagant vows:
even should you try this in her presence, the
words are lacking to put such vows in. So
soon as you reach them, they fail you : and the
30

©ver Ibis Cigar

oath only quivers on the lip, or tells its story
by a pressure of the fingers. You wear a
brusque, pleasant air with your acquaintances,
and hint — with a sly look — at possible changes
in your circumstances. Of an evening, you
are kind to the most unattractive of the wall-
flowers— if only your Nelly is away ; and you
have a sudden charity for street beggars, with
pale children. You catch yourself taking a
step in one of the new polkas, upon a country
walk ; and wonder immensely at the number of
bright days which succeed each other, without
leaving a single stormy gap, for your old mel-
ancholy moods. Even the chambermaids at
your hotel, never did their duty one-half so ^
well ; and as for your man, Tom, he is become v|
a perfect pattern of a fellow.

My cigar is in a fine glow ; but it has gone
out once, and it may go out again.

You begin to talk of marriage; but

some obstinate papa, or guardian uncle thinks
that it will never do — that it is quite too soon,
or that Nelly is a mere girl. Or some of your
wild oats — quite forgotten by yourself — shoot
up on the vision of a staid mamma, and throw
a very damp shadow on your character. Or
31

<S>ver Ibis

the old lady has an ambition of another sort,
which you, a simple, earnest, plodding bach-
elor, can never gratify — being of only passable
appearance, and unschooled in the fashions of
the world, you will be eternally rubbing the
elbows of the old lady's pride.

All this will be strangely afflicted to one
who has been living for quite a number of
weeks, or months, in a pleasant dream-land,
where there were no five per cents., or reputa-
tions, but only a very full, and delirious flow
of feeling. What care you for any position,
except a position near the being that you
love? What wealth do you prize, except a
wealth of heart, that shall never know diminu-
tion ; or for reputation, except that of truth,
and of honor ? How hard it would break upon
these pleasant idealities, to have a weazen-
faced old guardian set his arm in yours, and
tell you how tenderly he has at heart the hap-
piness of his niece ; and reason with you about
your very small, and sparse dividends, and your
limited business ; and caution you — for he has
a lively regard for your interests — about con-
tinuing your addresses ?

- The kind old curmudgeon I

©\>er 1bt0 Cigar

Your man Tom has grown suddenly a very-
stupid fellow ; and all your charity for withered
wall-flowers, is gone. Perhaps in your wrath
the suspicion comes over you, that she too
wishes you were something higher, or more
famous, or richer, or anything but what you
are ! a very dangerous suspicion : for no man
with any true nobility of soul can ever make
his heart the slave of another's condescension.

But no— you will not, you cannot believe
this of Nelly ; that face of hers is too mild and
gracious ; and her manner, as she takes your
hand, after your heart is made sad, and turns
away those rich blue eyes — shadowed more
deeply than ever by the long and moistened
fringe ; and the exquisite softness, and mean-
ing of the pressure of those little fingers ; and
the low, half sob; and the heaving of that
bosom, in its struggles between love, and duty
— all forbid. Nelly, you could swear, is ten-
derly indulgent, like the fond creature that
she is, towards all your short-comings; and
would not barter your strong love, and your
honest heart, for the greatest magnate in the
land.

What a spur to effort is the confiding love of 2)
33

©ver 1bi0 Cigar

a true-hearted woman! That last fond look
of hers, hopeful and encouraging, has more
power within it to nerve your soul to high
deeds, than all the admonitions of all your
tutors. Your heart, beating large with hope,
quickens the flow upon the brain; and you
make wild vows to win greatness. But alas,
this is a great world — very full, and very
rough:

all up-hill work when we would do ;

All down-hill, when we suffer. 1

Hard, withering toil only can achieve a
name ; and long days, and months, and years,
must be passed in the chase of that bubble —
reputation ; which when once grasped, breaks
in your eager clutch, into a hundred lesser
bubbles, that soar above you still !

A clandestine meeting from time to time,
and a note or two tenderly written, keep up
the blaze in your heart. But presently, the
lynx-eyed old guardian — so tender of your in-
terests, and hers — forbids even this irregular
and unsatisfying correspondence. Now you

'Festus.
34

A clandestine meeting from time to time."

-•Page 34

Over His Cigar

©ver Ibis Cigar

can feed yourself only on stray glimpses of her
figure — as full of sprightliness and grace, as
ever; and that beaming face, you are half
sorry to see from time to time — still beautiful.
You struggle with your moods of melancholy,
and wear bright looks yourself — bright to her,
and very bright to the eye of the old cur-
mudgeon, who has snatched your heart away.
It will never do to show your weakness to a
man.

At length, on some pleasant morning, you
learn that she is gone — too far away to be
seen, too closely guarded to be reached. For
awhile you throw down your books, and aban-
don your toil in despair — thinking very bitter
thoughts, and making very helpless resolves.

My cigar is still burning ; but it will require
constant and strong respiration to keep it in a
glow.

A letter or two dispatched at random, re-/
lieve the excess of your fever ; until with prac-
tice, these random letters have even less heat
in them, than the heat of your study, or of
your business. Grief — thank God ! — is not so
progressive, or so cumulative as joy. For a
time, there is a pleasure in the mood, with
35

Over Die

which you recall your broken hopes ; and with
which you selfishly link hers to the shattered
wreck : but absence, and ignorance tame the

point of your woe. You call up the image of
Nelly, adorning other and distant scenes. You
see the tearful smile give place to a blithesome
cheer ; and the thought of you that shaded her
fair face so long, fades under the sunshine of
gayety ; or at best, it only seems to cross that
white forehead, like a playful shadow, that a
fleecy cloud-remnant will fling upon a sunny
lawn.

As for you, the world with its whirl and
roar, is deafening the sweet, distant notes, that
come up through old, choked channels of the
affections. Life is calling for earnestness, and
not for regrets. So the months, and the years
slip by ; your bachelor habit grows easy and
light with wearing ; you have mourned enough,
to smile at the violent mourning of others ; and
you have enjoyed enough, to sigh over their
little eddies of delight. Dark shades, and de-
licious streaks of crimson and gold color lie
upon your life. Your heart with all its weight
of ashes, can yet sparkle at the sound of a fairy
step ; and your face can yet open into a round
36

©\>er Ibis Cigar

of joyous smiles, that are almost hopes — in the
presence of some bright-eyed girl.

But amid this, there will float over you from
time to time, a midnight trance, in which you
will hear again with a thirsty ear, the witching
melody of the days that are gone; and you
will wake from it with a shudder into the cold
resolves of your lonely, and manly life. But
the shudder passes as easy as night from morn-
ing. Tearful regrets, and memories that touch
to the quick, are dull weapons to break through
the panoply of your seared, eager, and ambi-
tious manhood. They onlj7 venture out like
timid, white- winged flies, when night is come ;
and at the first glimpse of the dawn, they
shrivel up, and lie without a flutter, in some
corner of your soul.

And when, years after, you learn that she
has returned — a woman, there is a slight glow,
but no tumultuous bound of the heart. Life]
and time have worried you down like a spent
hound. The world has given you a habit of
easy and unmeaning smiles. You half accuse
yourself of ingratitude and forgetf ulness ; but
the accusation does not oppress you. It does
not even distract your attention from the morn-
37

©vet 1bfs Cigar

ing journal. You cannot work yourself into a
respectable degree of indignation against the
old gentleman — her guardian.

You sigh — poor thing ! and in a very flashy
waistcoat, you venture a morning call.

She meets you kindly — a comely, matronly
//f dame in gingham, with her curls all gathered
under a high-topped comb ; and she presents
to you two little boys in smart crimson jack-
ets, dressed up with braid. And you dine with
madam — a family party ; and the weazen-faced
old gentleman meets you with a most pleasant
shake of the hand — hints that you were among
his niece's earliest friends, and hopes that you
are getting on well ?

Capitally well !

And the boys toddle in at dessert — Dick to
get a plum from your own dish ; Tom to be
kissed by his rosy-faced papa. In short, you
are made perfectly at home ; and you sit over
your wine for an hour, in a cozy smoke with
the gentlemanly uncle, and with the very
courteous husband of your second flame.

It is all very jovial at the table, for good
wine is, I find, a great strengthener of the
bachelor heart. But afterwards, when night
38

©\>er Ibis Cigar

has fairly set in and the blaze of your fire
goes flickering over your lonely quarters, you
heave a deep sigh. And as your thought runs
back to the perfidious Louise, and calls up the
married, and matronly Nelly, you sob over
that poor dumb heart within you, which
craves so madly a free and joyous utterance !
And as you lean over with your forehead in
your hands and your eyes fall upon the old
hounds slumbering on the rug — the tears start,
and you wish — that you had married years
ago ; and that you too had your pair of prat-
tling boys, to drive away the loneliness of your
solitary hearthstone.

, My cigar would not go ; it was fairly

out. But with true bachelor obstinacy, I
vowed that I would light again.

©vcr "tots Cigar

LIGHTED WITH A MATCH

I HATE a match. I feel sure that brimstone
matches were never made in heaven ; and it is
sad to think, that with few exceptions, matches
are all of them tipped with brimstone.

But my taper having burned out, and the
coals being all dead upon the hearth, a match
is all that is left to me.

All matches will not blaze on the first trial ;
and there are those, that with the most
indefatigable coaxings, never show a spark.
They may indeed leave in their trail phos-
phorescent streaks ; but you can no more
light your cigar at them, than you can kindle
your heart, at the covered wife- trails, which
the infernal, gossiping, old match-makers will
lay in your path.

Was there ever a bachelor of seven and

twenty, I wonder, who has not been haunted

by pleasant old ladies, and trim, excellent,

good-natured, married friends, who talk to

40

Ibis Cigar

him about nice matches — " very nice matches,"
matches which never go off ? And who, pray,
has not had some kind old uncle, to fill two
sheets for him (perhaps in the time of heavy
postages), about some most eligible connection
— " of highly respectable parentage ! "

"What a delightful thing, surely, for a
withered bachelor, to bloom forth in the
dignity of an ancestral tree ! What a precious
surprise for him, who has all his life worshiped
the wing-heeled Mercury, to find on a sudden,
a great stock of preserved, and most respect-
able Penates !

—In God's name — thought I, puffing vehe-
mently— what is a man's heart given him for,
if not to choose, where his heart's blood, every
drop of it is flowing ? "Who is going to dam
these billowy tides of the soul, whose roll is
ordered by a planet greater than the moon —
and that planet — Yenus? "Who is going to
shift this vane of my desires, when every
breeze that passes in my heaven is keeping it
all the more strongly, to its fixed bearings ?

Besides this, there are the money matches,
urged upon you by disinterested bachelor
friends, who would be very proud to see you
41

®ver 1>i0. Cigar

at the head of an establishment. And I must
confess that this kind of talk has a pleasant
jingle about it ; and is one of the cleverest
aids to a bachelor's day-dreams, that can well
be imagined. And let not the pouting lady
condemn me, without a hearing.

It is certainly cheerful to think — for a con-
templative bachelor — that the pretty ermine
which so sets off the transparent hue of your
imaginary wife, or the lace which lies so be-
wltchingly upon the superb roundness of her
form — or the graceful bodice, trimmed to a
line, which is of such exquisite adaptation to
her lithe figure, will be always at her com-
mand— nay, that these are only units among
the chameleon hues, under which you shall
feed upon her beauty ! I want to know if it
is not a pretty cabinet picture, for fancy to
luxuriate upon — that of a sweet wife, who is
cheating hosts of friends into love, sympathy
and admiration, by the modest munificence of
her wealth? Is it not rather agreeable, to
feed your hopeful soul upon that abundance,
which, while it supplies her need, will give a
jange to her loving charities — which will keep
from her brow the shadows of anxiety, and
42

©ver Ibis Cicjar

will sublime her gentle nature, by adding to it
the grace of an angel of mercy ?

Is it not rich, in those days when the
pestilent humors of bachelorhood hang heavy
on you, to foresee in that shadowy realm,
where hope is a native, the quiet of a home,
made splendid with attractions ; and made
real, by the presence of her, who bestows
them ? Upon my word — thought I, as I con-
tinued puffing — such a match must make a
very grateful lighting of one's inner sym-
pathies ; nor am I prepared to say, that such
associations would not add force to the most
abstract love imaginable.

Think of it for a moment — what is it, that
we poor fellows love ? We love, if one may
judge for himself, over his cigar — gentleness,
beauty, refinement, generosity, and intelligence
— and far above these, a returning love, made
up of all these qualities, and gaining upon
your love, day by day, and month by month,
like a sunny morning, gaining upon the frosts
of night.

But wealth is a great means of refinement ;
and it is a security for gentleness, since it re-
moves disturbing anxieties ; and it is a pretty
43

<§>ver Ibis Cigar

promoter of intelligence, since it multiplies the
avenues for its reception ; and it is a good basis
for a generous habit of life ; it even equips
beauty, neither hardening its hand with toil,
nor tempting the wrinkles to come early. But
whether it provokes greatly that returning
passion — that abnegation of soul — that sweet
trustfulness, and abiding affection, which are
to clothe your heart with joy, is far more
doubtful. Wealth, while it gives so much,
asks much in return ; and the soul that is
grateful to mammon, is not over ready to be
grateful for intensity of love. It is hard to
gratify those, who have nothing left to gratify.

Heaven help the man who having wearied
his soul with delays and doubts, or exhausted
the freshness, and exuberance of his youth — by
a hundred little dallyings with love — consigns
himself at length to the issues of what people
call a nice match — whether of money, or of a
family !

Heaven help you (I brush the ashes from my
cigar) when you begin to regard marriage as
only a respectable institution, and under the
advices of staid old friends, begin to look about
you for some very respectable wife. You may
44

Ovir Hit Cigar

" Her dress is elegant and tasteful."

©ver Ibis Cigar

admire her figure, and her family ; and bear
pleasantly in mind the very casual mention
which has been made by some of your pene-
trating friends — that she has large expecta-
tions. You think that she would make a very;
capital appearance at the head of your table ;.
nor in the event of your coming to any public; ^
honor, would she make you blush for her breed-
ing. She talks well, exceedingly well ; and:
her face has its charms ; especially under %
little excitement. Her dress is elegant, andy
tasteful, and she is constantly remarked upon
by all your friends, as a " nice person." Some
good old lady, in whose pew she occasionally
sits on a Sunday, or to whom she has some-
time sent a papier mache card-case, for the
show-box of some Dorcas benevolent society,
thinks — with a sly wink — that she would make
a fine wife for — somebody.

She certainly has an elegant figure ; and the
marriage of some half dozen of your old flames,
warn you that time is slipping and your
chances failing. And in the pleasant warmth
of some after-dinner mood, you resolve — with,
her image in her prettiest pelisse drifting across
your brain — that you will marry. Now comes
45

©ver Ibis Cigar

the pleasant excitement of the chase ; and
whatever family dignity may surround her,
only adds to the pleasurable glow of the pur-
suit. You give an hour more to your toilette,
and a hundred or two more, a year to your
tailor. All is orderly, dignified, and gracious.
Charlotte is a sensible woman, everybody says ;
and you believe it yourself. You agree in
your talk about books, and churches and flow-
ers. Of course she has good taste — for she
accepts you. The acceptance is dignified, ele-
gant, and even courteous.

You receive numerous congratulations ; and
your old friend Tom writes you — that he hears
you are going to marry a splendid woman ;
and all the old ladies say — what a capital
match ! And your business partner, who is a
married man, and something of a wag —
" sympathizes sincerely." Upon the whole,
you feel a little proud of your arrangement.
You write to an old friend in the country, that
you are to marry presently Miss Charlotte of
such a street, whose father was something
very fine, in his way ; and whose father before
him was very distinguished ; you add, in a
postscript, that she is easily situated, and has
46

©ver Ibis Cigar

" expectations." Your friend, who has a wife
that he loves, and that loves him, writes back
kindly — " hoping you may be happy " ; and
hoping so yourself, you light your cigar — one
of your last bachelor cigars — with the margin
of his letter.

The match goes off with a brilliant marriage ;
at which you receive a very elegant welcome %>:.•••
from your wife's spinster cousins — and drink
a great deal of champagne with her bachelor
uncles. And as you take the dainty hand of
your bride — very magnificent under that bridal
wreath, and with her face lit up by a brilliant
glow — your eye, and your soul, for the first
time, grow full. And as your arm circles that
elegant figure, and you draw her towards you,
feeling that she is yours — there is a bound at
your heart, that makes you think your soul-
life is now whole, and earnest. All your early
dreams, and imaginations, come flowing on
your thought, like bewildering music ; and as
you gaze upon her — the admiration of that
crowd — it seems to you, that all that your
heart prizes, is made good by the accident of
marriage.

Ah — thought I, brushing off the ashes

47

<§>\>er Ibis Cigar

again — bridal pictures are not home pictures ;
and the hour at the altar, is but a poor type of
the waste of years !

Your household is elegantly ordered ; Char-
lotte has secured the best of housekeepers, and
she meets the compliments of your old friends
who come to dine with you, with a suavity,
that is never at fault. And they tell you —
after the cloth is removed, and you sit quietly
smoking in memory of the olden times — that
she is a splendid woman. Even the old ladies
who come for occasional charities, think
raadame a pattern of a lady ; and so think her
old admirers, whom she receives still with an
easy grace, that half puzzles you. And as you
stand by the ball-room door, at two of the
morning, with your Charlotte's shawl upon
your arm, some little panting fellow will con-
firm the general opinion, by telling you that
madame is a magnificent dancer ; and Monsieur
le Comte, will praise extravagantly her French.
You are grateful for all this ; but you have an
uncommonly serious way of expressing your
gratitude.

You think you ought to be a very happy
fellow ; and yet long shadows do steal over
48

©ver Ibis Cigar

your thought ; and you wonder that the sight of
your Charlotte in the dress you used to admire
so much, does not scatter them to the winds;
but it does not. You feel coy about putting
your arm around that delicately robed figure
— you might derange the plaitings of her
dress. She is civil towards you; and tender;
towards your bachelor friends. She talks with
dignity — adjusts her lace cap — and hopes you
will make a figure in the world, for the sakev
of the family. Her cheek is never soiled withf|
a tear ; and her smiles are frequent, especially^
when you have some spruce young fellows at "
your table.

You catch sight of occasional notes, per-
haps, whose superscription you do not know ;
and some of her admirers' attentions become
so pointed, and constant, that your pride is
stirred. It would be silly to show jealousy ;
but you suggest to your " dear " — as you sip
your tea — the slight impropriety of her action.

Perhaps you fondly long for some little V
scene, as a proof of wounded confidence ; but '
no — nothing of that; she trusts (calling you
" my dear "), that she knows how to sustain the
dignity of her position.
49

©\>er Ibis Cigar

You are too sick at heart, for comment, or
for reply.

And is this the intertwining of soul of

which you had dreamed in the days that are
gone? Is this the blending of sympathies that
was to steal from life its bitterness : and spread
over care and suffering, the sweet, ministering
hand of kindness, and of love ? Ay, you may
well wander back to your bachelor club, and
make the hours long at the journals, or at play
— killing the flagging lapse of your life ! Talk
sprightly with your old friends — and mimic
the joy you have not ; or you will wear a bad
name upon your hearth and head. Never
suffer your Charlotte to catch sight of the tears
which in bitter hours, may start from your
eye ; or to hear the sighs which in your times
of solitary musings, may break forth sudden,
and heavy. Go on counterfeiting your life, as
you have begun. It was a nice match ; and
you are a nice husband !

But you have a little boy, thank God,
towards whom your heart runs out freely ;
and you love to catch him in his respite from,
your well-ordered nursery, and the tasks of his
teachers — alone ; and to spend upon him a little
50

©ver 1bi0 Cigar

of that depth of feeling, which through so
many years has scarce been stirred. You. play
with him at his games ; you fondle him ; you
take him to your bosom.

But papa — he says — see how you have tum-
bled my collar. What shall I tell mamma ?

Tell her, my boy, that I love you !

Ah, thought I — my cigar was getting dull,
and nauseous — is there not a spot in your
heart, that the gloved hand of your elegant
wife has never reached : that you wish it might
reach ?

You go to see a far-away friend : his was not
a " nice match " : he was married years before
you : and yet the beaming looks of his wife
and his lively smile, are as fresh and honest as
they were years ago ; and they make you
ashamed of your disconsolate humor. Your
stay is lengthened, but the home letters are
not urgent for your return : yet they are
marvelously proper letters, and rounded with
a French adieu. Yrou could have wished a
little scrawl from your boy at the bottom, in
the place of the postscript which gives you the
names of a new opera troupe ; and you hint as
much — a very bold stroke for you.
51

<§>ver IMs Cigar

Ben — she says — writes too shamefully.

And at your return, there is no great antici-
pation of delight; in contrast with the old
dreams, that a pleasant summer's journey has
called up, your parlor as you enter it — so ele-
gant, so still — so modish — seems the charnel-
house of your heart.

By and by, you fall into weary days of sick-
ness ; you have capital nurses — nurses highly
recommended — nurses who never make mis-
takes— nurses who have served long in the
family. But alas for that heart of sympathy,
and for that sweet face, shaded with your pain
• — like a soft landscape with flying clouds —
you have none of them ! Your pattern wife
may come in from time to time to look after
your nurse, or to ask after your sleep, and
^x\ glide out — her silk dress rustling upon the
door — like dead leaves in the cool night breezes
of winter. Or perhaps after putting this chair
in its place, and adjusting to a more tasteful
fold that curtain — she will ask you, with a
tone that might mean sympathy, if it were
not a stranger to you — if she can do anything
more.

Thank her — as kindly as you can, and close
52

©vcr Ibis Cigar

your eyes, and dream — or rouse up, to lay
your hand upon the head of your little boy —
to drink in health, and happiness, from his
earnest look, as he gazes strangely upon your
pale and shrunken forehead. Your smile even,
ghastly with long suffering, disturbs him ;
there is no interpreter, save the heart, be-
tween you.

Your parched lips feel strangely, to his
flushed, healthful face ; and he steps about on
tiptoe, at a motion from the nurse, to look at
all those rosy-colored medicines upon the table
— and he takes your cane from the corner, and
passes his hand over the smooth ivory head ;
and he runs his eye along the wall from picture
to picture, till it rests on one he knows — a
figure in bridal dress — beautiful, almost fond
— and he forgets himself, and says aloud —
" There's mamma ! "

The nurse puts her finger to her lip ; yo
waken from your doze to see where your eager
boy is looking ; and your eyes, too, take in
much as they can of that figure — now shadowy
to your fainting vision — doubly shadowy to
your fainting heart !

From day to day, you sink from life : the
53

©vcr Ibis Cigar

phj^sician says the end is not far off; why
should it be ? There is very little elastic force
within you to keep the end away. Madame
is called, and your little boy. Your sight is
dim, but they whisper that she is beside your
bed; and you reach out your hand — both
hands. You fancy you hear a sob — a strange
sound ! It seems as if it came from distant
years — a confused, broken sigh, sweeping over
the long stretch of your life : and a sigh from
your heart — not audible — answers it.

Your trembling fingers clutch the hand of
your little boy, and you drag him towards you,
and move your lips, as if you would speak to
him ; and they place his head near you, so
that you feel his fine hair brushing your cheek
— " My boy, you must love — your mother ! "

Your other hand feels a quick, convulsive
grasp, and something like a tear drops upon
your face. Good God! Can it be indeed a
tear ?

You strain your vision, and a feeble smile

flits over your features, as you seem to see her
figure — the figure of the painting — bending
over you ; and you feel a bound at your heart
— the same bound that you felt on your bridal
54

©ver Ibis Cigar

morning ; the same bound which you used to
feel in the spring-time of your life.

Only one — rich, full bound of the heart

— that is all !

My cigar is out. I could not have lit it

again, if I would. It was wholly burned.

" Aunt Tabithy " — said I, as I finished read-
ing — " may I smoke now under your rose-
tree ? "

Aunt Tabithy, who had laid down her knit-
ting to hear me — smiled — brushed a tear from
her old eyes, said — " Yes — Isaac," and having
scratched the back of her head, with the dis-
engaged needle, resumed her knitting.

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